IC-NRLF 


$D    MM    DZfl 


BROAD  STREET,  NEW  YORK 

BY 
COLIN  CAMPBELL  COOPER 

BY  COURTESY  OF 

THE  CINCINNATI  MUSEUM 

ASSOCIATION 


ill 

The 

G 


PAUL  ELD  EP  6 

ASD  N 


CIAOflH 

Y8 

'/IIJOO 


YS 
JM  ITA/X13HD  3HT 


* 

* 

THE  CALL 

OFTHECITY 

BY 

CHARLES  MULFORD 
ROBINSON 

AUTHOR  OF 
"  MODERN  CIVIC  ART  " 
"THE  IMPROVEMENT  OF  TOWNS  AND  CITIES" 
"ROCHESTER  WAYS" 
ETC. 

Who  once  has  known  the  city's  lures 
May  cast  them  off  in  vain  ; 
Its  clangor  on  his  ear  endures, 
Its  lights  are  in  his  brain. 
The  freedom  of  the  open  seek  — 
Canoe,  and  camp,  and  shack  / 
But  there  the  city  's  voice  shall  speak 
To  bid  the  Wanderer  back. 
Edwin  L.  Sabin. 

PAUL  ELDER  &  COMPANY 

SAN  FRANCISCO  AND  NEW  YORK 

* 

£ 

Copyright,  \9QS.by 
Paul  Elder  and  Company 

The  publishers  desire  to  acknowledge  the 
courtesy  extended  by  The  Frank  A.  Mun- 
sey  Company;  The  Century  Company; 
Dodd,  Mead  &  Company ;  The  Bobbs- 
Merrill  Company ;  Houghton,  Mifflin  and 
Company;  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  The 
Penn  Publishing  Company  and  The  Out 
look  Publishing  Company  in  granting  per 
mission  to  reprint  various  selections  included 
in  this  little  volume. 


AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 

TO  THE 

HUMDRUM  CLUB 
ROCHESTER 

N.Y. 


327383 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY     -    -  1 

II.  THE  CITY'S  BEAUTY    -    -    -    -  9 

III.  ITS  HUMAN  INTEREST     -    -    -  1 7 

IV.  THE  CITY'S  FELLOWSHIP     -    -  25 

V.  THE  CITY'S  COMFORTS  -    -    -  35 

VI.  THE  CHARM  OF  THE  PAST     -  47 

VII.  OPPORTUNITIES 55 

VIII.  HOPE  FOR  CITIES 63 

IX.  WHEN  PHYLLIS  IS  IN  TOWN  -  71 

X.  HOLIDAYS 77 

XL  ENTERTAINMENT 89 

XII.  SLEEP 99 


£ 

* 

i 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

Uphold  me  on  the  danger-crest 

of  life, 

O  Mother  City! 

My  heart  is  lifted  on  thy  buoyant 

tides, 

Thrilled  by  thy  cries  of  revelry 

and  woe. 

The  far  hills  call  me,  but  I  may 

not  go  ; 

The  woods  invite  me,  —  but  thy 

spell  abides. 

Marion  Couthouy  Smith 

in  The  Century  Magazine. 

H 

£ 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


OF  ALL  the  calls  of  the  city,  none 
that  it  gives  is  so  insistent  as  that 
in  the  first  cool  days  of  autumn.  Then 
its  children,  far  scattered,  hear  its  voice 
and  return,  and  the  youths  of  the  fields 
and  villages,  with  the  stimulus  of  the 
fall  upon  them,  turn  expedtant  faces 
cityward. 

It  sometimes  seems,  indeed,  as  if  nature 
and  man  reverse  the  seasons.  When  the 
spring  comes  to  the  vegetable  world,  it 
is  fall  with  men.  They  long  to  fly  to  the 
arms  of  Mother  Earth  and  to  sleep  like 
tired  children  clasped  close  to  her  heart, 
careless  of  passing  days  and  unmindful 
of  the  work  to  be  done.  But  when  the 
autumn  has  come,  and  leaves  are  wither 
ing  and  falling  and  all  the  plants  of  sum 
mer  bloom  have  spent  their  energy,  then 
new  life  stirs  in  the  blood  of  man,  there 
comes  an  elasticity  in  the  step,  a  higher 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


holding  of  the  head  and  a  zest  for  work. 
That  is  the  time  when  one  must  come 
back  to  the  city. 

The  city  calls,  as  the  woods,  the  hills 
and  the  ocean  have  called  in  their  season 
and  have  been  answered.  Its  call  is  not 
in  vain,  for  it  speaks  to  the  best  that  is 
in  us  —  to  the  zeal  and  the  fire  of  man 
hood.  Not  as  we  wearily  yielded  to  na 
ture,  but  with  a  rush,  with  a  shout  in  the 
heart,  with  an  eager  joy  there  is  return 
to  the  town  as  to  the  mistress  from  whom 
there  has  been  long  parting.  Soft  be 
neath  the  feet,  as  the  preacher  hath  said, 
are  its  stones;  bright  are  its  lights  as 
eyes  in  which  there  is  welcome;  as 
music  to  the  ears  that  the  silence  of 
nature  denied  is  the  roar  of  its  traffic, 
and  the  walls  of  its  buildings  seem  like 
an  embrace. 

How  rare  a  mistress  the  city  is !   How 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


many  are  her  caprices,  how  infinite  the 
variety  of  her  moods !  Today  she  meets 
us  with  outstretched  hands  and  smiling 
face,  but  there  are  times  when  she 
seems  cold  and  distant,  with  gaze  steadily 
averted.  Sometimes  she  is  joyous,  full 
of  frivolity  and  laughter ;  and  sometimes 
solemn,  fearfully  earnest,  hurried  and  sad. 
But  always  to  those  whom  she  loves  she 
is  sympathetic,  precisely  reflecting  their 
own  mood.  As  if  one  walked  in  a  maze 
of  mirrors,  the  figures  on  every  side  are 
the  reflections  of  oneself.  In  her  changes 
there  may  be  read  our  own  vagaries. 
When  we  feel  poor  and  tired,  weariness 
and  want  seem  to  surround  us;  if  we 
are  happy  and  prosperous,  a  like  glad 
ness  is  in  her  streets. 

Coming  back  to  the  town,  one  feels  its 
charm  and  knows  this  to  be  independent 
of  mere  beauty.  The  abundant  vitality, 


6 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY      1  1  £  | 

the  splendid  power,  the  organization  of 
its  forces,  the  consciousness  that  behind 
all  the  activity,  and  giving  direction  to  it, 
there  is  intent,  ambition  and  love  —  this 
thought  appeals  to  intellect  and  emotion. 
The  wind  surges  through  the  forest  and 
great  trees  bend  and  sway — to  what 
purpose  and  with  what  consciousness? 
The  waves  pound  ceaselessly  on  sand 
and  rock,  with  waste  of  energy  and  what 
lack  of  will !  But  the  hurrying  crowd  is 
consciously  directed ;  no  member  of  it 
lacks  objective  point  to  which  desire  or 
duty  compels  him.  Thus  is  there  appeal 
in  the  surging  crowd  that  is  not  in  in 
sensate  winds;  and  a  call  to  the  heart 
in  the  roar  of  traffic,  significant  of  a  goal, 
that  is  not  in  the  wind-blown  sea.  The 
ozone  of  the  mountain  does  not  stimu 
late  as  quickly  as  does  contact  with  the 
city's  vivacity  and  energy;  and  weakly 


B 

THE 

CALL 

OF 

THE 

CITY 

u. 

does  the  silence  of  the  starlit  fields  im 
press  compared  with  the  effedt  of  a  city 
wrapped  in  night  — 

"And  the  moon  on  the  sleeping  city — 
(Hush,  word  that  would  thought  confine) 
The  glory  of  silvered  castles  rising 
Up  in  enchanting  line ! " 

Far  and  insistently  then  the  city  has 
called.  Its  lights  and  its  shadows,  its  joys 
and  its  sorrows,  its  Herculean  labors 
and  extravagant  indolence  call.  "Come, 
laugh  with  me  and  idle  away  the  hours," 
cry  the  streets  crowded  with  entertain 
ment;  "Come  to  me,  I  need  you;  uplift 
and  help,"  moan  patiently  the  suffering 
brother-peoples;  "Behold  my  wares, 
my  flashing  jewels,  my  gaudy  raiment, 
my  horses  and  harness  and  cars  and 
wines,"  have  said  the  shops;  "Be  a 
man,  bear  your  part  in  the  work  of  the 
world,"  is  in  the  hum  of  the  wheels, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


the  click  of  the  typewriters.  And  upon 
the  building  tops  the  fingers  of  steam 
beckon,  "  Come,  come ! "  It  is  the  call  of 
the  city,  and  as  the  sun-kissed  clouds 
hasten  over  the  autumnal  sky,  we  come, 
we  come! 


II 

THE  CITY'S  BEAUTY 

Far  sinking  into  splendor  —  with 
out  end! 

Fabric  it  seemed  of  diamond  and 
of  gold, 

With  alabaster  domes,  and  silver 
spires, 

And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace, 
high 

Uplifted;  here,  serene  pavilions 
bright 

In  avenues  disposed;  there,  tow 
ers,  begirt 

With  battlements  that  on  their 
restless  fronts 

Bore  stars. 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE  CITY'S  BEAUTY 

HE  IS  not  to  be  counted  a  lover  of 
the  city  who  will  not  accept  a  chal 
lenge  to  measure  its  beauty.  Indeed,  he 
is  a  poor  lover  of  any  sort  who  sees  no 
beauty  in  the  objedt  of  his  affecftion.  But 
one  needs  not  the  faith  of  the  little  blind 
god  to  perceive  the  loveliness  of  the 
urban  sunset,  when  the  dust-  and  smoke- 
ladened  air  throbs  with  rich  color;  of 
the  beauty  of  the  plumes  of  steam  that 
flutter  from  building  tops ;  of  the  charm 
of  orderly  strips  of  well-trimmed  green 
sward  and  rows  of  trees ;  of  the  brilliancy 
of  the  night  eff edts ;  the  pidluresqueness 
of  the  water-front  and  the  attradtion  of 
the  life  and  movement  of  a  crowd. 

There  are  a  thousand  details  that  are 
not  necessarily  included  in  these,  but 
that  come  to  the  minds  of  those  who 
love  the  town.  There  are  the  gay  shop 
fronts,  the  splendid  prancing  horses 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


in  their  jingling  harness,  the  beautiful 
women  fittingly  gowned,  the  long  curve 
of  a  river  or  harbor  bank,  the  arch  of  a 
bridge,  the  faint  glimmer  of  lights  through 
a  mist,  or  their  infinite  reflection  on 
pavements  that  gleam  in  the  evening 
rain;  there  is  the  light  through  painted 
windows,  while  to  the  ear  come  notes 
of  distant  music ;  there  are  the  lamps  of 
a  long,  slowly  rising  street,  meeting  in 
distant  perspective  as  if  saluting  stars 
had  been  drawn  up  on  either  side  of  a 
way  leading  to  the  infinite ;  there  are  the 
flashing  firefly  lights  of  the  hurrying 
cabs;  there  are  some  stately  buildings, 
some  poetic  towers  and  spires;  there 
are  windows  that  flash  back,  like  shields 
of  gold,  the  yellow  glory  of  a  setting  sun ; 
and  mountain-top  cliffs  of  marble  that 
are  tinted  in  the  rosy  dawn.  There  are 
the  breeze-flapped  flags,  the  troops  of 


THE  CITY'S  BEAUTY 


happy  children  and  the  flowers  that 
theoretically  ought  not  to  be  expedted. 
The  gurgle  of  a  fountain,  the  music  of  a 
chime  of  bells,  the  weird  skyward  leap 
of  the  flame  of  a  blast  furnace,  the  dart 
ing  lights  of  the  water-craft,  the  reds  and 
greens  of  the  switchlights  jeweling  the 
railroad  tracks — what  urban  delights  are 
these,  requiring  no  apology  from  one  who 
would  confess  the  charm  that  is  wrought 
upon  him  by  the  sheer  beauty  of  the  city ! 
And  to  this  charm  of  beauty  there  is 
added  the  stranger  charm  of  the  pic 
turesque.  The  black,  gaunt,  high-shoul 
dered  mass  of  a  warehouse ;  the  rows  of 
buildings  silhouetted  against  the  twilight ; 
the  busy  little  tugs  that  with  prodigious 
puffing  elbow  their  way  through  ob- 
strudting  seas ;  the  great  locomotive,  with 
its  huge  boiler,  short  stack  and  flying 
mane  of  smoke  —  how  one  may  thrill 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


with  the  consciousness  of  the  force  and 
power  gathered  into  the  city ! 

Much  as  one  must  admire  the  handi 
work  of  nature — now  sublimely  grand, 
majestic,  colossal,  and  now  incompre 
hensibly  delicate  and  exquisite — there  is 
also  an  inspiration  in  observing  the  work 
of  man's  hands,  in  seeing  how  natural 
forces  have  been  made  to  do  his  bid 
ding,  and  what  mighty  or  beautiful  or 
mechanically  wonderful  creations  have 
been  wrought  by  individuals  like  one 
self — by  men  whose  short  span  of  life 
was  in  part  apportioned  to  helpless  in 
fancy,  in  part  to  careless  childhood,  who 
at  their  best  were  not  exempt  from  pains 
and  ills  and  tempting  distradions,  and 
yet  who  achieved  so  much.  What 
monuments  to  human  skill  and  to  the 
genius  of  men  and  their  pluck  in  supple 
menting  physical  weakness,  are  cities; 


THE  CITY'S  BEAUTY 


and  with  what  new  and  pathetic  interest 
is  the  beauty  of  cities  enhanced  when 
one  thinks  how  briefly  the  workers  can 
enjoy  the  results  they  have  accom 
plished  !  That  lovely  spire,  that  mighty 
building  will  scarcely  have  begun  its  life 
when  the  builder  will  have  passed  away 
and  the  human  brain  by  which  it  was 
conceived  will  have  become  oblivious  in 
the  sleep  of  death.  The  sunset  now  sil 
houetting  the  city  will  flash  tomorrow 
before  other  eyes,  and  the  same  dark 
towers  against  the  twilight  are  soon  to 
mean  the  brief  resting-place  of  another 
people  whom  we  do  not  know.  The 
wild,  fantastic  swirls  of  steam  seem 
ephemeral  as  they  fly  from  the  tall  build 
ings  to  be  lost  in  the  blue  of  the  sky,  but 
their  like  may  still  be  dancing  in  the 
wind  when  we  who  love  them  walk  no 
longer  the  city  streets. 


16 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

£ 

Then,  with  head  erecft  and  heart 
attuned  to  the  beauty  that  surrounds  us, 
let  us  city  dwellers  go  forth,  frankly  re 
joicing  while  we  may,  to  take  our  fill  of 
pleasure  from  the  scene.  Let  there  be 
no  apology  because  city  pavements  in 
stead  of  grass  and  ferns  are  beneath  our 
feet,  and  no  regrets  that  a  certain  calm 
and  lonely  beauty  or  a  certain  awesome- 
ness  of  grandeur  is  denied  to  us  since 
the  city  is  our  home.  We  can  love  the 
beauty  of  the  town.  "  Enchanting  Lon 
don,  whose  dirtiest,  drab-frequented  al 
ley,"  cried  Charles  Lamb,  "and  her 
lowest-bowing  tradesman  I  would  not 
exchange  for  Skiddaw,  Helvellyn.  *  *  * 
Oh,  her  lamps  of  a  night,  her  rich  gold 
smiths,  print-shops,  toy-shops!"  There 
spoke  a  man! 


Ill 

ITS  HUMAN  INTEREST 

In  Angel-Court  the  sunless  air 
Grows  faint  and  sick  ',  to  left 

and  right 
The  cowering  houses   shrink 

from  sight, 

Huddling  and  hopeless,  eyeless, 
bare. 

Misnamed  you  say  P   For  surely 

rare 
Must  be  the  angel-shapes  that 

light 

In  Angel-Court! 

Nay  I  —  the  Eternities  are  there. 
Death  at  the  doorway  stands 

to  smite; 
Life   in   its   garrets    leaps   to 

light, 

And  love  has  climbed  that  crum 
bling  stair 

In  Angel-Court! 

Austin  Dobson. 


ITS  HUMAN  INTEREST 


r  I  ^HE  wonder  of  the  city  is  the  dra- 
1  matic  element  that  pervades  its 
every  part.  There  is  not  a  person  in  the 
city  who  is  not  the  hero  or  heroine  of  at 
least  one  story,  with  a  part  in  several 
others,  for  the  threads  of  romance  are 
tangled  and  crossed  beyond  unraveling 
and  tales  crowd  each  other  more  than 
do  the  people.  Who  would  not  rather 
sit  at  his  window  weaving  stories  of 
them  who  pass  than  lazily  read  the 
novel  which  another  has  written  and  in 
which  the  people  are  figments  of  fancy? 
Here  every  character  lives.  You  really 
see  them  from  your  window  or  can  meet 
them  if  you  please  upon  the  street. 

The  pause  of  those  men  to  talk,  the 
smile  that  passes  between  the  boy  and 
girl,  are  living  episodes  in  one  of  the  mil 
lion  books  that  will  never  be  written. 
And  you  cannot  be  sure  how  the  story  is 


|zo| 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

£ 

coming  out.  Events  crowd  thick  and 
fast,  but  the  serial  runs  on,  and  for  all 
you  know  you  may  yourself  some  day 
appear  in  it.  Indeed,  it  may  be  yours  to 
choose  whether  within  the  next  half-hour 
you  shall  remain  only  a  reader — a 
looker-on  —  or  shall  take  a  part  in  the 
story.  For  doubtless  you  can  get  into  it 
if  you  wish.  What  a  world  of  romance 
we  are  in,  when  life  seems  most  com 
monplace  and  the  world  most  preoccu 
pied!  Dull,  surely,  are  printed  pages  in 
contrast  with  the  life  around  us,  where 
sacrifices  cost  and  tears  are  real  and  pas 
sion  is  not  a  matter  of  rhetoric,  but  burns 
consumingly  in  the  soul.  There  are  little 
tragedies  that  seem  to  be  genuine  in  the 
brute  life  that  crowds  about  us ;  but  we 
cannot  measure  the  feeling  there.  With 
our  fellows  we  know  and  can  sympa 
thize. 


ITS  HUMAN  INTEREST 


Think  what  tales  could  be  told  by  the 
bench  in  a  city  square.  Last  evening 
Love  used  it,  and  like  the  flickering  of 
the  shadows  was  the  beating  of  the 
hearts.  A  love  story  culminated  then. 
This  morning  an  aged  nurse  sat  there 
with  her  little  charge,  and  in  the  soft 
sunshine,  while  brown  leaves  were  fall 
ing  on  sleeping  crocuses,  a  story  that  was 
almost  ended  touched  one  that  had  just 
begun.  Toward  noon  you  might  have 
seen  a  carrier  stop  at  the  bench  to  shift 
his  burden  —  and  consider  what  mys 
teries  his  bag  contained.  A  distributor 
of  fate,  it  is  scant  wonder  that  his  letters 
and  his  papers  were  heavy  with  the 
heartaches  and  joys  they  bore.  A  tramp 
has  come  now  to  the  bench,  and  as  the 
shadows  lengthen  his  head  drops  upon 
his  bosom  and  the  busy  world  about 
him  is  forgotten ;  but  we  may  not  know 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


the  memories  of  which  his  dreams  are 
made. 

And  how  the  stories  intertwine!  All 
unconsciously  I  touch  elbows  with  one 
who  is  strangely  to  aff  edt  my  life ;  reader 
and  author  collide  and  bow  and  pass, 
not  knowing  how  their  thoughts  have 
been  traveling  together;  two  men,  im 
personally  working  against  each  other, 
cling  to  the  same  strap  in  a  crowded 
car ;  and  the  face  that  attracts  across  the 
aisle  is  that  of  a  friend's  friend  whose 
praise  has  been  often  heard  and  whose 
private  history  is  known.  We  go  forth, 
encompassed  in  fascinating  mystery,  sure 
only  of  this :  that  those  whom  we  pass 
have  far  more  to  do  with  our  lives  than 
even  they  or  we  can  know.  Romance, 
poetry  and  tragedy  touch  us  at  every 
step,  until  the  tangle  seems  to  tighten 
hopelessly.  We  turn  appealingly  at  last 


1*1 

ITS 

HUMAN 

INTEREST 

[23J 

to  Him  who  alone  follows  the  separate 
threads  and  who,  we  know,  can  draw 
out  each  one  safely  to  its  end. 

For  a  visible  concentration  of  the 
dramatic  interest,  one  may  go  to  the  boat 
landing  or  the  railroad  station.  There 
the  coming  and  the  going  meet  in  a  sud 
den  apprehension  of  the  dramas  they 
enadt,  and  one  beholds  such  a  crowding 
of  stories  as  might  be  if  all  the  characters 
of  a  bookcase  of  novels  had  stepped 
from  between  the  covers  and  had  met 
in  a  waiting-room.  There,  in  the  pas 
sionate  embrace  of  welcome  and  the  long 
kiss  of  farewell,  there  is  a  brief  lifting  of 
the  curtain  and  a  revealing  of  that  deep 
emotion  which,  played  at  on  the  stage 
and  written  of  in  books,  presses  engulf- 
ingly  about  us  in  the  real  life  of  the 
town. 

Thus  is  the  city  no  place  for  introspec- 


24 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY      | 

£ 

tion.  No  morbid  self-study  is  invited 
here,  where  the  angels  of  life  and  death 
are  ever  passing  and  ten  thousand 
stories  are  spread  before  the  eye.  A 
wider  interest  than  self  is  furnished. 
You  who  whip  the  streams  or  follow  the 
chase  may  have  here  a  worthier  game 
than  seeking  to  capture  fish  or  bird  or 
deer ;  and  you  who  fain  would  have  the 
stories  that  you  read  end  joyously,  can 
here  have  part  in  determining  their  end. 
For  it  may  be  yours,  if  you  will,  to  lead 
Truth  into  dark  places  and  so  to  change 
the  current  of  a  story,  or  helpfully  to 
climb,  with  Love,  the  crumbling  stair  in 
Angel-Court. 


£ 

* 

IV 

THE  CITY'S  FELLOW 
SHIP 

Bred  in  the  town  am  I, 
So  would  I  will  to  be, 
Loving  its  glimpses  of  sky, 
Swayed  by  its  human  sea. 

Out  of  its  greed  and  scorn, 
Strong  hands  and  kindly  reach  ; 
Over  its  discords  home, 
Listen—  what  gentle  speech  ! 

Here  in  the  surging  crowd, 
Modem  in  habit  and  names, 
Linger  all  unavowed, 
Simon  Peter  and  fames. 

Judas  goes  cringing  by 
Heavily  browed  and  wan  — 
Yonder,  with  timid  eye, 
Passes  the  loving  John. 

1*" 

Yonder  on  flower-booth  raised, 
Pallid,  the  blossoms  lean  — 
There  in  the  lilies  He  praised, 
Look  1    The  Nazarene  ! 

Robert  Gilbert  Welsh 
in  The  Reader  Magazine. 

* 

THE  CITY'S  FELLOWSHIP 


IT  IS  not  wholly  true  that  we  move 
through  life  as  through  a  story.  The 
passion  that  we  read  of  in  the  books 
and  of  which  we  watch,  with  fascinated 
interest,  the  manifestations  in  a  town, 
exists  in  our  own  hearts.  The  world 
may  seem  a  stage,  but  every  adlor  thinks 
his  own  part  is  true — in  the  main  at 
least.  It  is  not  life  that  imitates  the  stage, 
but  the  stage  that  plays  at  life,  and 
player-folk  don  the  buskin  and  the  soc- 
cus  only  because  there  are  real  tragedies 
and  real  comedies.  From  these  not  one 
of  us  can  be  exempt. 

To  experience  these  emotions  is  the 
largest  and  most  blessed  part  of  life.  It 
is  only  some  measure  of  this  experience, 
indeed,  that  makes  possible  the  enjoy 
ment  of  the  played  or  written  story;  it 
is  this  alone  that  endows  us  with  sym 
pathy — the  strain  of  divinity  in  human 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


love;  it  is  through  it  that  we  live  our 
careers  and  are  not  merely  lookers-on  at 
life.  And  we  who  know  how  widely 
reaching  are  the  stories  all  about  us,  how 
the  threads  tangle  and  cross  and  split, 
cannot  exped:  to  live  apart.  The  narra 
tive  of  any  one  life  is  concerned  with 
innumerable  others.  There  are  heart 
aches  where  the  clinging  threads  are 
parted,  for  the  adhesive  fibers  are  ten 
tacles  of  love.  Just  as  fibers  make  soft 
and  warm  the  yarn,  so  these  tentacles  of 
love  make  soft  our  hearts  and  warm  our 
spirits;  and  by  their  means,  on  the  pat 
tern  of  society,  the  flower  of  fellowship 
unfolds,  making  beautiful  the  world. 

In  the  multiplicity  and  nearness  of  the 
town's  companionship  this  is  seen  at  its 
best.  Here  we  find  a  friend  for  every 
mood.  If  there  is  no  isolation  in  the  life 
of  the  city,  it  is  because  in  the  city  we 


|  g  1  1     THE  CITY'S  FELLOWSHIP 

29 

do  not  need  to  be  alone.  There  are 
friends  to  laugh  with  us,  and  friends  to 
mourn;  there  are  friends  to  hope  with 
us,  to  doubt  with  us,  to  believe  with  us. 
Our  interests  are  shared  and  are  made 
the  stronger  by  others'  sympathy  and 
enthusiasm.  Not  as  a  voice  crying  in  the 
wilderness,  but  as  one  of  a  band  believ 
ing  as  we  believe  —  with  all  the  encour 
agement  that  such  union  gives — we 
make  known  our  cause,  raise  our  stand 
ards,  and  fight  our  battles.  There  is 
always  the  sympathetic  friend  to  whom 
the  dearest  hope  may  be  unbosomed; 
there  is  always  one  to  whose  greater 
experience  we  may  turn  for  counsel ;  as 
surely  as  there  are  hands  outstretched 
for  our  help,  other  hands  are  reaching 
out  to  help  us.  In  the  great  beating 
heart  of  the  city,  our  heart  has  no  pulse 
that  cannot  find  its  counterpart,  and  so 


30 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY     1  1  £  | 

is  granted  the  stimulus  of  union  and  the 
encouragement  of  comradeship. 

Laughter  has  ever  its  answering  laugh. 
In  the  moment's  warm  pressure  of  a 
hand  there  may  be  concentrated  how 
much  of  sympathy;  in  the  responsive 
glance  of  approving  eyes  there  is  a 
world  of  inspiration;  and  in  the  denial 
of  a  look  a  challenge  that  is  like  a  spur. 
Without  the  touch  of  this  enveloping 
fellowship  we  were  poor  creatures  in 
deed,  dreamers  who  would  bring  little 
to  pass. 

There  is,  further,  an  encouragement  in 
the  town  that  is  more  than  that  of  com 
radeship — the  encouragement  of  great 
examples.  They  who  are  what  we  want 
to  be  and  strive  to  be,  walk  before  us  in 
the  flesh,  in  proof  that  this  goal  we  set 
ourselves  is  not  impossible  and  visionary. 
The  cheering  effedt  of  this  cannot  be 


THE  CITY'S  FELLOWSHIP 


measured.  It  gives  one  courage  to  dare, 
it  shows  him  what  to  do,  and  it  clothes 
with  the  intimate  charm  of  personality 
the  great  figures  of  contemporary  history. 
He  learns  that  even  as  the  bravest  are 
the  tenderest,  so  the  wisest  are  most 
modest,  the  greatest  are  the  gentlest  and 
the  busiest  have  most  time  to  spare  for 
others'  aid, — that  he  who  is  most  truly 
and  rightfully  a  hero  is  also  most  lovably 
a  man. 

Thus  is  fellowship  one  of  the  precious 
gifts  of  the  town — smoothing  our  rough 
edges,  rubbing  us  brighter,  enlarging  our 
sympathies,  satisfying  our  hunger  of 
spirit,  pointing  and  helping  us  forward. 
Then  drink  together,  sing  together,  shout 
together!  Only  the  city  can  know  en 
thusiasm  and  the  full  zest  of  life — its 
breadth  and  its  cheer,  for  in  the  city 
alone  we  exultantly  feel  ourselves  to  be 


I32I 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

* 

part  of  the  living  present,  one  of  the  co- 
related  parts  of  God's  great  machine. 
'That  man,"  said  Charles  Lamb,  "must 
have  a  rare  recipe  for  melancholy  who 
can  be  dull  in  Fleet  Street"  — 

*  Fleet  Street!  Fleet  Street!  Fleet  Street  in  the 

morning, 
With  the  old  sun  laughing  out  behind  the  dome 

of  Paul's, 

Heavy  wains  a-driving,  merry  winds  a-striving, 
White  clouds  and  blue  sky  above  the  smoke- 
stained  walls. 

Fleet  Street!  Fleet  Street!  Fleet  Street  in  the 

noontide, 
East  and  west  the  streets  packed  close,  and 

roaring  like  the  sea; 
With  laughter  and  with  sobbing  we  feel  the 

world's  heart  throbbing, 
And  know  that  what  is  throbbing  is  the  heart 

of  you  and  me. 

Fleet  Street!  Fleet  Street!  Fleet  Street  in  the 
evening, 

*"A  Song  of  Fleet  Street,"  by  Alice  Werner. 


THE  CITY'S  FELLOWSHIP 


Darkness  set  with  golden  lamps  down  Ludgate 

Hill  a-row: 
Oh !  hark  the  voice  o*  th'  city  that  breaks  our 

hearts  with  pity, 
That  crazes  us  with  shame  and  wrath,  and 

makes  us  love  her  so. 

Fleet  Street!  Fleet  Street!  morning,  noon  and 

starlight, 
Through  the  never-ceasing  roar  come  the  great 

chimes  clear  and  slow; 
"  Good  are  life  and  laughter,  though  we  look 

before  and  after, 
And  good  to  love  the  race  of  men  a  little  ere 

we  go/' 


V 

THE  CITY'S  COMFORTS 

She  sees  the  fields  of  harvest 

sown  for  her, 
She  sees  the  fortress  set  beside 

her  gate, 
Her  hosts,  her  ships,   she  sees 

thro'  storm  and  fire; 
And  hers  all  gifts  of  gold  and 

spice  and  myrrh, 
And  hers  all  hopes,  all  hills  and 

shores  of  fate, 
And  hers  the  fame  of  Babylon 

and  Tyre. 

William  Ellery  Leonard 
in  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 


£ 

THE  CITY'S  COMFORTS 

I37I 

IF  NOW  and  then,  on  a  wet  fall  day, 
the  city  does  not  seem  attractive,  one 
should  draw  up  before  his  fire  and  read 
the  journal  of  a  lover  of  the  country,  of 
a  hunter  or  a  fisherman  in  his  wilds. 

The  writer  will  early  tell  how  shabbily 
the  weather  treated  him,  and  it  is  a  safe 
guess  that  one  will  not  be  so  saintly  as 
not  to  smile  when  thinking  of  the  con 
trast  offered  by  the  safe  harbor  of  a  city. 
In  town  it  makes  little  difference  what 
the  weather  does.  You  can  carry  out 
your  program  with  slight  concern.  Your 
tent  doesn't  leak,  and  you  don't  have  to 
sit  indoors.  One  can  keep  dry  and  warm 
and  comfortable  and,  if  need  be,  can  go 
from  place  to  place  without  a  soaking, 
for  there  is  always  a  car  or  a  cab.  But 
even  should  one  walk,  are  wet  pavements 
half  as  bad  as  soggy  leaves  or  as  wet 
grasses  tangling  around  the  feet?  Just 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


because  in  town  we  live  indoors,  the  out 
door  conditions  do  not  seriously  incon 
venience. 

The  weather  allusions  have  led  you, 
of  course,  to  put  down  your  book  and  to 
blink  contentedly  at  the  fire  the  while 
you  considered  your  coziness.  The  text 
of  the  out-of-doors  journal  rambles  on, 
as  it  is  fitting  such  journals  should,  and 
before  it  is  done  with  the  weather  one 
may  be  sure  of  a  page  or  so  on  the  de 
licious  difficulty  of  making  a  fire ;  on  the 
remarkable  failure  of  this  particular  fire, 
when  built,  to  warm  both  sides  of  the 
body  at  the  same  time  equally;  and  of 
the  early  darkness  and  the  consequent, 
and  admittedly,  long  and  tiresome  eve 
nings  when  the  weather  is  rainy.  If  you 
are  human,  you  shift  your  feet  on  the 
ottoman  and  ring  for  William  to  turn  on 
the  steam  heat;  then  you  reach  out  a 


1* 

THE 

CITY'S 

COMFORTS 

I39I 

lazy  hand  to  a  shadowy  outline,  now 
faintly  seen  in  the  fitful  glow  of  the  fire, 
and  a  desk  lamp  suddenly  blooms  into 
a  flower  of  light.  You  refledt  that  in  the 
morning  your  fire  will  be  ready  again 
for  the  match,  and  pick  up  the  book  to 
read  further  of  what  a  pitiable  fellow 
you  are  to  be  in  town. 

The  tone  of  the  volume  changes  with 
a  change  in  the  weather.  The  author  re 
gales  himself  with  a  rhapsody  on  the 
wild  flowers,  on  their  tender  beauty  (for 
the  most  part  lost,  he  confesses,  when 
they  are  picked),  and  on  the  charm  of 
the  unexpected  when  one  comes  upon  a 
blossom  that  had  not  been  looked  for. 
Under  his  eager  pen  one  gets  the  very 
odors  of  the  country.  But  strangely  ming 
ling  with  the  remembrance  of  dusty  hay 
or  of  damp  woods  there  comes  the 
fragrance  of  a  real  American  Beauty, 


40]  |      THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


regally  splendid  in  its  tall,  slim  vase. 
You  bought  it  three  days  ago,  and  it  is 
good  for  perhaps  a  week.  You  were 
following  the  familiar  trail  that  leads 
from  the  office  to  the  house;  and  there 
it  stood,  diredlly  in  your  path,  with  three 
or  four  dozen  of  its  kind,  and  whole  beds 
of  autumn  flowers  —  of  asters  and  anem 
ones,  and  bright  banks  of  salvia,  and 
clusters  —  such  clusters !  —  of  chrysanthe 
mums.  Good  gracious !  What  adjedtives 
would  have  served  adequately  the  rhap 
sodizing  writer  had  he  come  upon  such 
a  display !  Unexpected  ?  The  flowers  are 
as  unexpected  in  your  case  as  in  his. 
You  knew,  as  did  he,  that  flowers  would 
doubtless  be  found  somewhere  on  the 
trail ;  but  you  were  not  sure  just  where, 
and  were  not  looking  for  them.  Indeed, 
you  were  thinking  of  quotations  or  of 
politics  or  of  something  equally  foreign 


ffl 

THE 

CITY'S 

COMFORTS 

41 

when  suddenly  they  were  seen.  The 
surprise  was  yours  rather  more  than  the 
woodsman's.  If  he  would  have  preferred 
the  anemone  to  the  rose,  that  is  a  matter 
of  taste.  He  did  not  have  the  choice  as 
you  did. 

And  now,  what  is  this  he  says?  He 
declares  that  the  charm  of  the  wild 
flowers  lies  in  looking  for  them,  and 
then  coming  on  a  variety  that  you  do  not 
expedt  But  it  was  only  yesterday  that 
you  wanted  flowers  for  somebody  and 
you  went  to  a  certain  dell  you  know 
of,  undetermined  just  what  you  would 
choose,  and  there  you  found  not  only  all 
the  flowers  of  the  season,  but  all  the 
flowers  of  all  the  seasons,  and  you  came 
away  with  the  variety  you  had  least  ex- 
pec5ted  to  get.  There  may  be  objections 
to  stony  pavements,  where  the  murmur 
ing  stream  at  the  edge  is  known  as  a 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


gutter,  but  a  city  street  —  even  in  business 
sections  —  cannot  be  scorned  for  a  want 
of  flowers. 

Turning  the  pages  of  the  book,  you 
come  to  chapters  on  larger  game.  It  soon 
appears  that  the  fish  and  wild  animals 
one  has  known  in  his  forest  life — most 
of  the  books  are  written  by  amateurs  — 
are  the  fish  and  animals  whom  he  wanted 
to  know,  but  which  successfully  eluded 
him.  That  is  humiliating ;  but  at  the  end 
of  the  chapter  it  is  with  shame  admitted, 
and  there  is  a  brief  discourse  on  the  dis- 
spiriting  but,  one  confesses,  the  appetiz 
ing,  experience  of  going  hungry.  This 
is  a  matter  in  which  it  is  advantageous 
to  be  in  town.  Armed  with  a  purse  in 
stead  of  a  heavy  gun,  and  with  dollars 
in  lieu  of  cartridges,  you  can  fill  your  bag 
anywhere.  And  you  don't  have  to  get 
up  in  the  gray,  chill  light  of  dawn ;  you 


1*1 

THE  CITY'S  COMFORTS 

I43 

don't  have  to  sit  all  day  in  a  boat,  or 
tramp  all  day  up  and  down  a  stream  or 
through  tangled  underbrush  until  your 
hands  are  torn  and  your  legs  are  tired. 
You  don't  have  to  shock  your  instincts 
of  humanity  by  baiting  hooks  or  by  try 
ing  to  lacerate  the  jaws  of  fish  or  by 
aiming  at  innocent  bird  or  beast  with 
deliberate  intent  to  kill,  and  you  don't 
have  to  dull  your  moral  sense  by  subse 
quently  telling  lies.  But  whistling  merrily 
as  you  swing  along  the  street,  you  can 
get  here  a  mallard  and  there  a  canvas- 
back  ;  and  here  a  trout — a  three-pounder, 
oh,  you  disappointed  anglers ! — and  there 
a  pickerel,  or  a  bluefish,  or  a  salmon,  as 
you  prefer.  And  if  you  like,  you  can 
clap  a  partridge  into  your  bag,  while  the 
child  of  nature  is  untangling  his  line  from 
a  tree,  or  is  sorrowfully  reloading  his  gun 
and  watching  his  last  chance  for  dinner 


44 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

1*1 

fly  away.  As  for  larger  game,  you  do 
not  hesitate  between  venison  or  bear's 
meat,  but  you  can  take  them  both,  to 
show  the  kind  of  table  you  can  spread 
in  town. 

If  it  is  the  landing  of  a  fish,  and  not 
the  eating  of  it,  that's  the  fun  —  an  ancient 
theory  of  the  sportsman  which  is  some 
how  not  convincing, —  you  can  have  a 
pleasure  that  is  higher  than  his,  because 
purely  intellectual,  by  getting  a  con 
scienceless  tradesman  on  the  end  of  the 
telephone  line  and  playing  with  him 
there.  In  this  case  you  are  dealing  with 
human  intelligence  instead  of  with  mere 
fish  instindl,  and  the  sport  is  delicate 
and  fascinating.  There  will  be  moments 
when,  as  happens  with  anglers,  you  will 
have  a  struggle  with  naughty  words; 
you  will  also  have  to  be  ready  for  emer 
gencies,  in  order  to  acft  without  hesitation 


£ 

THE  CITY'S  COMFORTS      1  1  45 

and  yet  with  no  precipitancy.  If  you 
make  a  mistake,  there  is  a  chance  that  he 
will  hang  up  the  receiver,  which  is  about 
the  same  as  when  a  fish  runs  off  with 
the  bait,  for  having  had  him,  you  lose 
him.  You  must  detedt,  not  the  physi 
cal,  but  the  finer,  psychological  moment 
when  he  is  played  out  and  the  net  is  to 
be  instantly  brought  into  use.  That,  of 
course,  is  the  "one  more  trial*';  but  in 
using  it  you  must  not  show  excitement, 
or  undue  eagerness  to  land  him.  You 
must  plunge  it  in  deftly  and  with  a  calm 
that  belies  the  fluttering  of  your  heart. 
It  is  astonishing  how  women  take  to  this 
kind  of  sport. 

The  book  has  been  finished.  The 
writer  of  the  journal  is  sure  that  there  is 
only  one  life  to  live — the  life  of  which 
he  has  told.  But  if  you  are  a  real  citizen 
he  has  not  persuaded  you.  You  do  not 


46 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

£ 

feel  that  you  must  exchange  your  dollars 
for  guns  and  fishing-tackle,  and  sell  your 
house  and  silk  umbrella  to  buy  a  tent 
and  a  rubber  coat.  With  that  catholicity 
of  spirit  which  comes  from  residence 
in  a  town,  you  only  yawn  as  you  write 
across  the  fly-leaf,  "Many  minds  to 
many  men," — and  you  fall  to  wondering 
whether  town  life  be  not  the  lazier,  rather 
than  the  more  arduous;  and  whether 
it  be  not  nobler,  getting  your  sustenance 
with  a  nod  or  word,  to  spend  your  time 
on  other  matters  instead  of  devoting  the 
greater  part  of  it  to  merely  securing 
food,  as  do  hunters,  anglers  and  the  brute 
creation. 


VI 

THE  CHARM  OF  THE 
PAST 

Oh  World,  thou  wast  the  forest 
to  this  hart. 

Shakespeare. 


1*1 

THE 

CHARM 

OF 

THE 

PAST 

M 

r  I  ^HE  near  consciousness  of  their  past 
JL  is  doubtless  an  important  facftor  in 
the  attractiveness  of  cities.  Sometimes 
it  rises  to  the  dignity  of  history,  and  in 
fancy  one  sees  the  streets  peopled  again 
with  the  statesmen  and  soldiers,  the 
churchmen,  wits  and  gallants  of  the  long 
ago.  A  few  old  buildings,  remaining, 
serve  as  piers  for  the  architecture  that 
imagination  recreates ;  and  we  see  once 
more  the  ancient  pageants,  hear  old  cries 
of  condemnation  or  approval,  and  revert 
with  curious  interest  to  former  points  of 
view.  But  if  it  be  that  no  world  history 
was  made  upon  these  streets,  that  their 
stones  have  not  been  worn  by  characters 
of  national  prominence,  that  they  who 
splendidly  dreamed  and  whose  dreams 
came  true — or  seemed  true  in  the  tell 
ing — have  never  walked  here,  even  yet 
there  is  a  close,  dear  past.  We  may  at 


I50I 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

£ 

least  people  the  street  with  the  spirits  of 
those  like  ourselves,  of  the  builders  of 
the  city  which  we  have  inherited  to  patch, 
rebuild  and  add  to  before  we  also  are 
called  away. 

What  a  series  of  volumes  it  would 
take  to  tell  adequately  the  history  of  a 
city  street,  to  note  the  changes  it  has  seen 
from  forest  to  field,  from  bit  of  field  to 
footpath,  from  country  path  to  village 
street,  to  the  highway  of  a  town,  to  city 
thoroughfare;  to  marshal  in  array  the 
joy  and  sorrow  that  have  passed  along 
it,  or  to  tell  the  full  story  of  the  houses 
and  buildings  that  have  lined  its  sides! 
There  is  so  much  history  in  a  street, 
every  day  so  much  happens  there,  that 
in  considering  it  one  seems  on  the  edge 
of  a  boundless,  mysterious  forest  where 
a  thousand  alluring  vistas,  ending  now  in 
sunshine  and  now  in  shadow,  tempt  one 


* 

THE  CHARM  OF  THE  PAST 

51 

to  penetrate— while  giving  a  warning — 
of  how  easily  the  way  may  be  lost.  But 
the  fascination  is  strong.  You  dip  into 
the  dark  recesses  a  little  here  and  a  little 
there.  The  heat  and  dust  and  sun  of 
day  are  left  behind,  and  wandering  soli 
tary  in  those  calm  and  still  retreats  you 
find  in  one  the  prototype  of  a  mighty 
tree  that  spreads  its  branches  far  and  is 
a  landmark  of  the  forest.  This  is  a  noble 
character.  In  another  there  are  good 
deeds  done  so  unassumingly  as  to  be  like 
small  wild  flowers,  that  would  not  have 
been  seen,  had  not  the  seclusion  been 
thus  pierced ;  and  in  the  third,  in  sem 
blance  of  a  pool  that  mirrors  him  who 
looks  upon  it,  is  the  likeness  of  oneself. 
Not  in  vain,  then,  does  one  walk  in 
these  glades  of  history,  half  real,  half 
visionary.  In  the  shadow  of  their  years 
is  many  a  lesson ;  and  many  a  resolve, 


52 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY     1  1  g  | 

which  in  the  glare  of  the  present  rages 
conspicuously  as  a  powerful  current, 
finds  there  in  the  dusk  and  obscurity  its 
spring.  The  way  is  strangely  tangled; 
thorn  and  flower  grow  side  by  side ;  the 
brightest  leaf  and  berry  may  be  poison; 
and  where  the  shade  is  thickest,  growth 
may  be  the  best. 

Thus  once  more  the  city  street  becomes 
a  forest  path;  the  shadows  suddenly 
multiply,  and  the  time-trees  shake  threat 
ening  arms  and  murmur  grumblingly 
against  intrusion;  spirits  stir  among  the 
bushes ;  a  leaf  trembles,  and  the  light  is 
gone.  We  are  far  in  the  forest  of  history, 
and  the  sunny  street  of  today  with  its 
activity,  cheer  and  present  interest  seems 
remote.  Oh,  wonderful  street  that  leads 
to  such  a  wood,  partly  real  and  partly 
fancied ;  and  wonderful  forest  of  history 
that  day  by  day  is  growing  unchecked 


£ 

THE 

CHARM 

OF 

THE 

PAST 

[53] 

on  the  careless  street!  You  may  stand 
this  afternoon  on  the  busiest  corner,  and 
if  the  fates  are  kind,  if  the  ears  are  good 
and  the  eyes  are  keen,  you  may  see 
knights  riding  in  the  forest  and  robbers 
hiding  behind  the  trees ;  you  may  hear 
the  rustle  of  Naiads'  garments,  may  catch 
a  glimpse  of  falling  tears  or  hear  the 
sighs  of  love ;  and  in  and  out  among  the 
bushes,  like  flecks  of  sunshine,  you  may 
see  still  at  play  the  scampering  children 
of  another  age. 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  it  came,  the  for 
est  vanishes.  There  is  only  the  roar  of 
the  traffic  of  today.  Something  has 
broken  the  spell ;  but  ever  more  the  city 
street  has  for  you  a  new  interest,  and  you 
listen  amid  the  rattle  of  wagons  for  a 
clash  of  medieval  steel  and  peer  between 
the  horses'  legs  for  robbers  hiding  behind 
dark  trees. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


And  always  you  know  this :  however 
much  you  see  or  hear,  you  barely  pene 
trate  the  fringing  edge  of  the  forest  of 
history,  for  its  dim,  mysterious  recesses 
are  many  and  deep  and  full. 


VII 

OPPORTUNITIES 

/  believe  that  there  is  in  life  a 
great  and  guarded  city,  of  which 
we  may  be  worthy  to  be  citizens. 
*  *  *  Sometimes  we  discern  the 
city  afar  off,  with  her  radiant 
spires  and  towers,  her  walls  of 
strength,  her  gates  of  pearls; 
and  there  may  come  a  day,  too, 
when  we  have  found  the  way 
thither,  and  enter  in.  *  *  *  / 
speak  in  a.  parable,  but  those  who 
have  found  the  way,  and  seen  a 
little  of  the  glory  of  the  place, 
will  smile  at  the  page  and  say: 
"  So  he,  too,  is  of  the  city. " 

Arthur  C.  Benson 

in  From  a  College  Window. 


* 

OPPORTUNITIES 

_57J 

A  STREAM  of  people  flowing  down 
f~\  the  street,  each  with  a  purpose  of 
some  sort  or  other,  the  currents  eddying 
and  whirling  around  the  currents  of  a 
stream  bound  in  the  opposite  dire<5tion 
with  like  earnestness  of  aim  —  this  is  one 
of  the  city's  impressive  spectacles.  In 
the  parallel  and  cross  streets  you  find  it 
repeated,  and  you  cannot  fail  to  carry 
away  a  thought  of  the  number  of  oppor 
tunities  which  a  city  must  contain  to  af 
ford  so  many  and  such  varied  goals. 
Where  are  the  offices,  shops  and  work 
rooms  to  which  all  these  people  go; 
what  are  the  tasks  they  face  and  the 
ends  they  hope  to  gain;  and  what  of 
that  dream  city  —  that  city  of  crowded 
" Spanish"  castles  —  which  floats  above 
them,  to  us  invisible? 

With    thoughts    far   flown    and   half- 
closed  eyes,  one's  own  castle  rises  before 


I58I 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

* 

one,  ethereal,  trembling,  constant;  and 
one  is  able  to  guess  of  the  walls  and 
towers  that  others  have  reared  about 
it  pulsating,  fading,  and  then  alluringly 

glowing  again  in 

*  *  *  the  gleam, 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream. 

These  are  the  prizes  for  them  who  grasp 
the  city's  opportunities.  This  is  the  city 
of  God,  the  holy  city  coming  down  out 
of  heaven.  This  is  the  mirage  that,  seen 
from  afar,  bids  youth  beat  the  plough 
share  into  a  sword  and  join  the  army 
that  is  struggling  under  its  shimmering, 
ethereal  walls.  Vainly  cry  the  golden 
fields,  the  flower-jeweled  meadows  and 
the  somber  woodlands  once  the  vision 
has  been  seen.  The  gates  of  the  city  are 
open  and  the  crowd  surges  in,  valiantly 
to  fight,  patiently  to  suffer,  some  to  win 


* 

OPPORTUNITIES            |J59 

and  some  bravely  to  die  in  disappoint 
ment.  A  vision  leads  and  sustains. 

Not  always  pure  and  true  are  the  in 
dividual  ambitions.  Doubtless  there  is 
many  a  showy,  glittering  castle  that 
would  mock  its  possessor  or  must  crum 
ble  at  a  touch.  But  a  city  of  noble 
dreams  still  is  left,  and  from  each  earnest 
mind  and  stirring  spirit  a  scaling-ladder 
reaches  to  its  battlements. 

There  is  a  legend,  endorsed  by  many 
an  instance,  that  they  mount  the  rungs 
with  best  success  who  strive  to  draw  up 
others  as  they  raise  themselves.  Not  by 
the  fall  of  others,  and  not  by  ignoring 
the  efforts  of  those  who  struggle  below 
and  on  either  side,  but  by  the  helping 
hand,  by  the  lifting  of  another's  burden 
and  the  pointing  of  the  way  to  those 
whose  vision  has  faded  and  become  ob 
scure,  is  the  progress  made  most  surely. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


And  there  are  so  many  in  the  city  who 
need  to  be  assisted.  Of  all  the  ways  of 
opportunity  it  offers,  no  other  is  as  broad 
as  the  opportunity  to  serve. 

But  the  path  of  scholarship  is  wide  and 
tempting,  and  splendid  is  that  part  of 
the  city  of  dreams  that  hangs  in  the  sky 
above  it.  This  road  is  easier  to  travel  in 
the  city  than  in  the  country,  for  the  grade 
is  gentle,  there  are  resources  for  all  emer 
gencies  and  there  is  the  stimulus  of 
companionship.  Yet  many  fall  in  its 
academic  shades,  and  many  stagger  as 
they  advance,  so  that  here  too  one  need 
not  work  for  himself  alone. 

There  is  another  very  tempting  way 
for  those  who  love  music;  and  yet  an 
other  for  those  who  would  paint  or 
carve.  You  could  imagine  the  streets  of 
the  city  apportioned,  with  no  great 
change,  to  the  many  different  kinds  of 


OPPORTUNITIES 


effort.  But  perhaps  the  real  condition  is 
best — where  the  people  mingle;  yet 
each  with  his  own  path  of  duty,  in  his 
own  mind  a  dream,  and  before  him  — 
invisible  to  others  —  a  "certain  star." 
These  stars  are  the  lights  of  the  city  of 
dreams,  of  the  city  that  really  counts. 

The  best  and  brightest  castles  are 
those  that  glow  before  the  eyes  of  them 
who  love  their  fellows.  The  moan  of 
want — spiritual,  physical  or  mental  — 
was  the  city's  call  to  these  —  the  eager  to 
serve, —  and  it  has  led  them  into  dingy 
ways  and  narrow  courts.  But  the  glory 
of  their  vision  and  the  beauty  of  their 
hopes  transform  the  dinginess. 

This  is  the  secret  of  the  city's  higher 
call — the  Opportunity  it  proffers,  the 
easier,  shorter,  surer  way  to  the  goal  of 
one's  ambition.  This  is  the  mystic  ele 
ment  of  its  subtle  power — the  tremen- 


62 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY     1  1  £  | 

dous  risk,  with  the  chance  of  winning. 
Not  all  its  glamour,  not  all  its  beauty,  not 
all  its  interest,  past  and  present,  suffice 
to  explain  the  force  of  its  attraction. 
There  still  must  be,  now  fading  and  now 
brightening,  the  city  of  the  vision — the 
pillar  of  cloud  and  fire  to  challenge  our 
faith  and  lead  us  on. 


VIII 

HOPE  FOR  CITIES 

7  bless  God  for  cities.  The 
world  would  not  be  what  it  is 
without  them.  Cities  have  been 
as  lamps  along  the  pathway  of 
humanity  and  religion.  Within 
them  science  has  given  birth  to 
her  noblest  discoveries.  Behind 
their  Walls  freedom  has  fought 
her  noblest  battles.  They  have 
stood  on  the  surface  of  the  earth 
lif^e  great  breakwaters,  rolling 
back  °r  turning  aside  the  swelling 
tide  of  oppression.  Cities  have 
indeed  been  the  cradle  of  human 
liberty.  They  have  been  the  radi 
ating,  a£tive  centers  of  almost  all 
Church  and  State  reformation. 

William  Norman  GutKrie. 


1*1 

HOPE 

FOR 

CITIES 

I65I 

SUCH  is  a  catalogue  of  some  of  the 
greatest  hopes  for  cities.  They  who 
follow  a  pillar  of  cloud  are  led  by  a 
hope,  and  before  Dr.  Guthrie's  state 
ments,  quoted  as  introduction  to  this 
chapter,  could  be  true  there  had  to  be 
broad  hopes,  exceeding  even  the  realiza 
tion —  hopes  for  humanity,  hopes  for 
science,  religious  hopes,  and  hopes  of 
liberty. 

These,  then,  were  the  dreams  of  them 
who  saw,  not  separate  Spanish  castles 
merely,  but  enough  of  them  to  make 
dream  cities ;  who  had  it  in  their  power 
to  forget  themselves  in  remembering 
their  fellows.  Little  by  little  there  have 
been  secured  in  the  real  cities  many  of 
the  things  that  have  thus  been  hoped 
for.  Much  of  wretchedness  yet  remains ; 
but  how  much  there  is  that  is  blessed! 

The  homeward   march  of  the  thou- 


66 

THE 

CALL 

OF 

THE 

CITY      ||&| 

sands  of  toilers  along  a  city  thoroughfare 
when  work  is  done  is  an  impressive 
sight.  In  its  concreteness  one  sees  in  it  a 
type-  "as  if,"  it  has  been  said  of  a  Chi 
cago  thoroughfare,  "all  the  laborers  of 
the  world  were  assembled  on  this  one 
street,  marching  forward  and  onward. 
All  minor  differences  of  creed  and  race, 
which  have  divided  the  camp  of  toil  so 
long,  are  being  forgotten  and  submerged. 
The  crowd  is  composed  of  people  from 
Poland,  Italy,  Germany,  Sweden,  Nor 
way,  Hungary,  Austria  and  Russia,  and 
the  vast  stream  amalgamates  them  all, 
making  of  them  a  people  in  common, 
with  one  aim  and  a  central  tendency. 
How  many  centuries  ago  was  it  that  they 
would  have  had  one  another  by  the 
throat,  struggling  like  beasts  of  different 
species?"  This  accomplished,  we  who 
live  in  town  may  surely  dare  now  to 


£ 

HOPE  FOR  CITIES 

67 

hope  and  strive  for  more  —  for  cities 
that  are  beautiful  by  design  as  well 
as  by  accident;  for  cities  that  are  polit 
ically  pure,  by  habit,  not  by  starts;  for 
cities  whose  children  are  instructed  and 
whose  people  are  wise;  for  cities  that 
have  playgrounds  for  all,  beauty  for 
all,  education  for  all,  freedom  for  all, 
and  the  love  of  God  in  the  hearts  of  the 
people. 

To  have  this  thought  and  the  courage 
to  make  a  hope  of  it,  is  to  feel  a  new 
love  for  cities  and  to  gain  from  them 
new  inspiration.  Mrs.  Browning  says : 

"  I  can  but  muse  in  hope  upon  this  shore 
Of  golden  Arno  as  it  shoots  away 
Through  Florence*  heart  beneath  her  bridges 

four! 

Bent  bridges,  seeming  to  strain  off  like  bows, 
And  tremble  while  the  arrowy  undertide 
Shoots  on  and  cleaves  the  marble  as  it  goes, 
And  strikes  up  palace-walls  on  either  side, 


I68' 

THE 

CALL 

OF 

THE 

CITY 

II* 

And  froths  the  cornice  out  in  glittering  rows, 
With  doors  and  windows  quaintly  multiplied, 
And  terrace-sweeps,  and  gazers  upon  all  — 
******* 

How  beautiful !    The  mountains  from  without 

In  silence  listen  for  the  word  said  next, 

What  word  will  men  say, —  here,  where  Giotto 

planted 

His  campanile,  like  an  unperplexed 
Fine  question  Heavenward ! " 

That  is  it — it  is  a  hope  that  is  a  ques 
tion  unperplexed,  a  vague  but  confident 
expectancy,  which  quiveringly  adluates 
the  city's  crowd.  They  may  fail,  and 
even  the  city  may  fall;  but  they  know 
that  out  of  the  cities  comes  progress. 
"He  who  makes  the  city  makes  the 
world,"  says  Drurnmond ;  and  the  moun 
tains  listen  silently  and  the  rivers  hush 
their  flow,  dutifully  turning  wheels  and 
meekly  bearing  the  burdens  that  the 
cities  thrust  upon  them,  while  they 


£ 

HOPE  FOR  CITIES 

69 

listen  —  listen  for  the  next  word,  for  the 
hope  come  true. 

In  the  stress  and  strain  of  city  life,  let 
us  dare  to  make  fittingly  splendid  the 
hope  we  have  for  cities,  and  let  us  have 
the  courage  and  the  patience  to  trans 
form  hope  to  fadl. 


£ 

* 

IX 

WHEN  PHYLLIS  IS  IN 

TOWN 

TTie  Ladies  of  St.  James's 
Go  swinging  to  the  play; 
Their  footmen  run  before  them, 
With  a"  Standby!  Clear  the 
way  !  " 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 
She  takes  her  buckled  shoon 
When  we  go  out  a-courting 
Beneath  the  harvest  moon. 

[*" 

Austin  Dobson. 

*1 

1*1 

WHEN 

PHYLLIS 

IS 

IN 

TOWN 

I73I 

T V /HEN  Phyllis  is  in  town  the  city  is 
W  no  longer  austere  and  dignified.  It 
becomes  bewitching.  Love  is  always 
full  of  sweet  surprises,  but  at  this  time 
one  may  chance  on  a  surprise  at  any 
moment  and  at  any  turn  —  for  Phyllis 
may  be  there !  When  Phyllis  is  in  town, 
the  very  streets  are  glorified  because  she 
walks  upon  them;  the  trolley  cars  are 
possible  chariots  since  her  dainty  foot 
may  mount  the  steps ;  and  every  closed 
carriage  is  worth  looking  into,  lest  her 
dear  face  be  hidden  in  its  shadows. 
You  cannot  know  whether  she  may  not 
be  just  around  the  corner,  and  whether, 
most  tantalizing  secret,  she  be  in  the 
crowd  before  you  or  behind  you!  Be 
cause  she  may  be  anywhere,  her  pres 
ence  pervades  the  city. 

When  Phyllis  is  in  town,  the  windows 
of  the  florists  tug  at  heart-strings  and  at 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


purse-strings ;  the  conf edtioners'  tempting 
trays  plead  sweetly  for  the  little  mouth ; 
the  windows  of  the  milliners  unaccus- 
tomedly  attradt,  for  in  them  are  plumes, 
of  which  one  may  get  on  Phyllis's  hat; 
the  windows  of  the  jewelers  fascinate, 
for  in  them  are  wedding-rings;  and  as 
to  the  windows  of  the  great  department 
stores,  showing  petticoats  galore — ah, 
what  thumping  of  the  heart,  what  furtive 
glances,  lest  Phyllis  be  somewhere  look 
ing  !  Shall  we  ever  see  Phyllis  and  such 
things  together?  Can  the  thought  be 
ventured  ? 

When  Phyllis  is  in  town,  the  music 
of  her  voice  is  in  every  tingle  of  the  tel 
ephone,  because — perhaps — she  asked 
that  it  should  ring ;  the  crowds  are  gayer 
and  walk  more  blithely,  since  she  may 
be  there ;  and  the  church  has  a  strangely 
romantic  fascination  where  Phyllis  sings, 


SB 

WHEN  PHYLLIS  IS  IN  TOWN 

75 

demurely  listens,  or  kneels  in  prayer. 
Dear  Phyllis,  what  has  she  to  pray  for 
if  it  be  not  to  intercede  for  you ! 

When  Phyllis  is  in  town,  the  changes 
of  the  weather  create  a  pidture-gallery. 
It  never  rains  that  you  do  not  have  a 
vision  of  tight  curls,  a  halo  of  umbrella, 
a  rain-coat  and  the  lower  portion  of  a 
little  pair  of  shoes.  The  skies  are  never 
blue  and  the  weather  warm,  that  you  do 
not  see  the  fluttering  flounces  of  a  sum 
mer  gown  that  tantalize  and  fascinate 
by  their  unsteadiness.  And  when  the 
snow  flies  and  the  wind  blows  cold,  two 
eyes  peer  laughingly  above  a  muff. 

When  Phyllis  is  in  town,  the  world  is 
such  a  great  big  funny  spectacle  for  you 
and  her  to  look  and  laugh  at ;  and  when 
she  goes,  it  is  such  a  dreary,  solemn 
drama ! 


X 

HOLIDAYS 

A  rush,  a  roar,  a  gleam,  a  glow ; 
A  great  procession  and  a  show; 
A  blare,  a  shout,  a  rush,  a  rout; 
A  threading  in,  a  thridding  out; 
A  snatch  of  song,  a  merry  word 
To  tell  a  common  joy  has  stirred 
The  common  heart; 
That's  Christmas  week  on  Chest 
nut  Street. 

Emma  Sophia  Stilwell. 


HOLIDAYS 


full  enjoyment  of  the  holidays, 
one  surely  must  be  in  town.  They 
mean  more  there  than  they  could  mean 
anywhere  else,  for  they  affecft  more 
people  and  their  whole  point  is  in  their 
eff  edl.  It  would  mean  nothing  to  the  bird 
in  the  tree  top  to  say,  "This  is  Sunday, 
and  you  may  spend  the  day  as  you  will, 
restricted  only  by  your  conscience";  or 
to  say  to  the  squirrel,  "This  is  a  fete  day, 
and  you  need  not  seek  your  nuts  in  the 
usual  hiding-places  unless  you  want  to; 
but  you  may  run  and  jump  through  the 
forest  as  broadly  as  you  please."  The 
rollicking,  bubbling  stream,  told  to  enjoy 
itself  because  a  certain  number  had  ap 
peared  on  the  calendar,  would  laugh  at 
you;  but  build  a  dam  and  make  the 
water  turn  a  mill-wheel,  and  the  stream 
will  laugh  with  you  when  you  tell  it  that 
work  is  done  and  it  can  run  away.  Free- 


[so] 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

* 

dom  means  something  then,  and  it  will 
caress  the  rocks  and  jump  into  the  sun 
shine,  and,  catching  the  flowers  along 
its  border,  will  dance  with  them  in  an 
abandon  of  delight  that  the  wondering 
bird  and  the  mystified  squirrel  who  have 
been  always  at  liberty  cannot  under 
stand.  That  is  the  way  it  is  in  the  city 
when  a  holiday  sets  folk  free. 

In  the  town  even  New  Year's  day, 
though  it  is  shorn  of  the  old  making  of 
calls  and  has  become  little  more  than 
a  pause,  is  an  interesting  holiday.  What 
a  going  over  of  accounts  and  balancing 
of  ledgers  there  has  been  and  is  to  be, 
and  how  impressive  are  the  suddenly 
deserted  business  streets  when  one  re- 
flecfts  that  they  are  silent  because  the 
whole  town  is  stopping  its  work  to  take 
thought  of  the  beginning  of  another 
year;  is  buckling  on  a  new  armor  of 


HOLIDAYS 


hope,  is  sharpening  anew  the  sword  of 
faith  and  tightening  the  girths  that  on 
the  morrow  it  may  valiantly  commence 
another  battle!  There  is  the  awesome- 
ness  of  the  lull  before  a  storm. 

In  the  country  the  birth-night  of  a  new 
year  steals  unnoticed  upon  the  sleeping 
world.  The  black  shadows  on  the  moon 
lit  snow  are  like  notes  of  music,  but  they 
make  an  unsung  hymn.  The  old  year 
died  unmourned,  the  new  arrives  un 
heralded.  The  striking  contrast  of  ring 
ing  bells  and  blowing  horns  in  the  town 
that  night  is  almost  pathetic.  It  is  sym 
bolic  of  the  pressing  forward  of  city  life. 
The  old  year  is  responsible  for  many 
kindly,  gracious  adts,  but  the  disappoint 
ments  and  the  trials  and  sorrows  which  it 
brought  have  so  balanced  the  good  that 
thoughts  fly  futureward,  not  back,  and 
hopes  are  pinned  to  the  new  year  and 


1  82  1|     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

£ 

its  mysteries.  On  New  Year's  day  you 
see  a  city  pausing  in  its  mad  race  of  life, 
and  no  face  turns  back,  but  all  eyes  look 
forward. 

And  one  must  be  in  town  on  a  pa 
triotic  holiday  if  he  would  realize  its  full 
significance.  Then  the  flags  that  every 
where  are  flying,  the  martial  music  that 
pulsates  in  the  air,  the  swinging,  rhythmic 
step  of  the  marchers,  the  windows  blos 
soming  with  heads,  the  crowded  curbs, 
the  gala  clothes,  the  care-freed  faces — 
all  combine  to  emphasize  the  celebra 
tion,  and  by  the  strength  of  that  to  make 
impressive  the  patriotic  significance  of 
the  day. 

Thanksgiving  the  country  has  claimed 
distinctly  as  its  own, —  as  if  the  turkey, 
dressed  in  all  the  pride  of  his  recent 
strut,  were  really  god  of  the  day,  and 
the  celebration  were  a  harvest  home.  In 


[83] 

El 

HOLIDAYS 

town  —  in  spite  of  football  contests — it 
seems  to  have  a  higher,  more  religious 
character.  The  mid-week  pause  from 
labor,  the  ringing  church  bells  calling  to 
prayer  and  praise,  the  general  sharing  of 
benefit  with  the  poor  so  that  on  Thanks 
giving,  at  least,  no  one  need  go  hungry, 
form  a  better  celebration  because  one 
more  appropriate  than  mere  feasting  and 
making  merry. 

Then  there  are  the  great  church  days, 
which  nowhere  are  observed  with  such 
impressive  pomp  as  in  the  town.  For 
Easter  the  streets  are  all  abloom  with 
flowers.  One  can  hardly  find  a  house 
too  poor  to  have  them  in  a  window,  a 
waist  too  worn  or  a  coat  too  faded  to 
negledt  the  touch  of  their  brightening; 
they  flood  the  city,  flowing  with  their 
messages  of  love  and  hope  and  friend 
ship  into  unexpected  little  crannies,  lodg- 


1  84  1|     THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

£ 

ing  at  the  bedside  of  the  sick  and  filling 
the  houses  of  them  who  mourn.  They 
fairly  bank  the  chancels  and  pulpits  of 
the  churches,  to  join  the  silent  praise  of 
beauty  to  the  paeans  which  on  that  day 
form  a  tidal  wave  of  music  that  sweeps 
from  city  to  city  around  the  world.  And 
the  gay  garments  of  spring  which  nature 
puts  on  by  degrees,  we  don  all  at  once 
on  Easter  day.  It  is  a  religious  festival, 
but  in  the  town  it  is  something  more  even 
than  that.  It  is  the  celebration  of  spring. 
There  is  put  into  it  all  the  comforting  joy 
of  faith  in  a  future  life,  and  at  the  same 
time  all  the  gladness  of  the  present  mo 
ment,  when  — 

"The  year's  at  the  spring, 
***** 

God's  in  his  heaven  — 
All's  right  with  the  world." 


E 

HOLIDAYS 

85 

But  best  of  all  is  Christmas-tide.  For 
the  Christmas  spirit  one  must  be  in  town. 
Weeks  beforehand  you  feel  its  presence 
in  the  joyous  pressure  in  the  streets,  in 
the  crowded  stores  and  attractively  dec 
orated  windows.  Ropes  of  laurel  and 
evergreen,  jungles  of  holly,  bushes  of 
mistletoe  and  forests  of  Christmas  trees — 
what  dreams  they  awaken,  what  visions 
of  romance,  what  pidtures  of  childish 
delight  they  thrust  on  business  streets! 
Is  it  any  surprise,  then,  to  meet  Santa 
Claus  face  to  face ;  to  hear  through  the 
office  window  the  jingle  of  reindeer  bells ; 
to  see,  in  fancy,  when  your  thoughts 
should  be  soberly  engaged,  trees  blos 
soming  with  tinsel  flowers,  apples  of  gilt 
dangling  from  their  branches,  strings  of 
popcorn  caught  from  limb  to  limb,  and 
little  stars  blinking  amid  their  foliage? 
Red  stockings,  "hung  by  the  chimney 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


with  care"  and  bulging  with  toys,  dance 
before  city  eyes  that  are  bent  upon  led 
ger  and  day-book;  and  in  the  shadows 
of  dim  corners  of  the  shop  there  are 
seen  in  thought,  for  a  week  before  and 
a  week  after  Christmas,  white-robed  little 
figures  tiptoeing  from  a  bed. 

Ah,  what  pranks  on  the  town's  ex 
hausting  toil  and  solemn  business  the 
Christmas  spirit  plays ;  into  what  a  realm 
of  tenderness  and  love  it  leads  us!  At 
that  blessed  season  the  only  thing  worth 
while  is  play,  and  every  man  or  woman 
whom  you  meet  in  town,  ladened  with 
bundles,  is  at  heart  a  Santa  Claus,  and 
in  the  bulging  delivery  wagons  there  are 
the  equivalent  of  innumerable  reindeer 
sleds.  Philanthropy  forgets  its  science 
and  asks  no  references;  there  is  only 
good-will  to  men  and  peace  on  earth. 
The  city,  which  is  so  full  of  men,  is  the 


HOLIDAYS 


place  to  feel  most  strongly  the  glad  and 
holy  change — the  blessed  childishness  — 
that  comes  upon  the  world  with  each 
recurring  Christmas  as  knees  bend  at 
thought  of  the  little  manger  in  the  stall 
in  Bethlehem.  The  wise  men  and  the 
kings  who  knelt  there  two  thousand 
years  ago  were  prophetic,  indeed,  of  our 
cities  on  Christmas  day. 


s 

A] 

XI 

ENTERTAINMENT 

Had  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money 
enough  and  to  spare, 
The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were 
a  house  in  the  city  square; 
Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one 
leads  at  the  window  there! 

[*" 

Robert  Browning. 

* 

£ 

ENTERTAINMENT 

91 

WHEN  all  is  said,  the  call  of  the  city 
is  to  many,  it  must  be  confessed, 
a  call  preeminently  to  pleasure.  It  is 
noteworthy  that  there  pertain  to  the 
town  qualities  to  attradl  all  sorts  of  per 
sons.  This  is  natural  enough,  for  the 
town  is  made  up  of  all  kinds  of  people ; 
but  the  fadl  is  one  more  of  those  to  be 
recorded  to  its  credit.  The  esthete  can 
find  in  it  much  that  is  beautiful;  to  the 
romantic  mood  it  seems  a  collection  of 
stories;  the  student  enjoys  the  exhaust- 
less  history  of  which  it  is  a  record,  the 
citizen  loves  the  comfort  it  affords,  and 
the  dreamer  discovers  in  the  city  the 
stuff  that  the  noblest  dreams  are  made 
of  —  the  inspiration  to  high  emprise. 

There  yet  remain  the  kinds  of  enter 
tainment  and  pleasure  that  are  offered, 
stridlly  as  such,  by  the  town,  and  these 
are  as  many  as  the  tastes  of  men.  Why 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


attempt  to  name  them,  when  their  range 
extends  from  the  library  richly  stocked 
with  books  to  the  lowest  dance  hall, 
from  the  sermon  to  the  zoo?  Whatever 
particular  thing  you  love,  even  if  it  be 
nature,  you  can  find  it  somewhere  in  the 
town ;  and  if  you  do  not  love  anything  in 
particular,  you  are  a  poor  creature  whom 
nothing  but  the  city  can  comfort.  There 
is  only  one  kind  of  misanthrope  for 
whom  it  has  no  permanent  attraction  — 
the  man  who  is  utterly  self-centered, — 
and  even  he  must  find  at  times  a  blessed 
relief  in  getting  away  from  self,  in  losing 
track  for  awhile  of  his  own  individuality 
in  the  distradlions  of  a  thousand  broader 
and  more  interesting  personalities  than 
his  own. 

And  this,  after  all,  is  the  best,  as  it  is 
the  most  distinctive  entertainment  and 
pleasure  the  city  affords.  It  is  the  crowd 


* 

ENTERTAINMENT           ||93| 

that  delights  one.  You  cannot  exadtly 
define  and  analyze  the  enjoyment  that  it 
gives ;  but  all  the  other  attractions  seem 
transitory,  dispensable,  and  of  mentally 
local  appeal  compared  to  this — the  per 
manent,  inseparable,  wholly  engrossing 
entertainment  of  the  town.  Until  one 
can  enjoy  people  one  should  not  live  in 
the  city;  and  when  one  does  enjoy  them 
a  solitude  will  seem  very  lonely  after  its 
novelty  wears  off.  Oneself  is  soon  dis 
tressingly  poor  company. 

Does  not  this  sentiment  mean  a  higher 
development  than  the  enjoyment  of  the 
woods?  We  talk  about  "going  back  to 
nature,"  and  retrogression  is  admitted  in 
the  phrase.  Primitive  man  wandered  by 
himself  and  cities  came  only  with  civili 
zation.  There  is  something  in  the  elec 
tric  thrill  of  mere  contadl  with  many 
vibrant  personalities;  something  conta- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


gious  in  the  sum  of  their  energy,  their 
pleasure,  their  zest  of  life.  The  boulevar- 
dier  could  argue  his  case,  if  he  cared  to ; 
and  could  make  his  idle  life  seem  attract 
ive,  even  justifiable  and  broadly  unself 
ish  ;  but  he  knows  that  the  most  earnest 
worker  in  the  city  has  already  a  secret 
sympathy  with  his  career.  He  doesn't 
have  to  argue ;  he  strolls  and  enjoys,  and 
all  the  world  smiles  back. 

We  have  been  speaking  of  the  history 
of  the  street;  but  to  one  who  gets  his 
pleasure  from  the  crowd,  that  is  an  aca 
demic  matter,  as  far  as  he  is  concerned, 
a  theory  of  enjoyment.  For  him  the  his 
tory  of  the  street  is  its  history  of  a  day; 
not  merely  the  day's  total  of  events  that 
happen  in  it,  although  they  make  an  im 
portant  item,  but  the  observance  of  its 
changing  moods.  The  street  is  as  differ 
ent  at  different  hours  as  it  could  be  in 


* 

|           ENTERTAINMENT 

95 

different  years.  In  the  morning  when 
the  milk-carts  rattle  severally  on  the 
pavement,  and  the  humbler  toilers  are 
hurrying  with  pale  faces  that  look 
pinched  in  the  early  cold,  it  is  not  at  all 
the  same  as  at  nine  o'clock,  when  the 
roar  of  traffic  is  almost  trumpetlike,  and 
when  with  the  rush  of  the  clanging  cars 
you  behold  an  army  pressing  forward. 
In  the  afternoon  rubber  tires  are  where 
the  groaning  wheels  had  been,  and  there 
is  an  air,  not,  indeed,  of  indolence,  but 
of  luxury  and  repose.  At  six  o'clock 
a  crowd,  like  a  flood  released,  surges 
through  the  street;  and  after  dinner, 
when  the  lights  are  blinking,  when  the 
theaters  are  gathering  their  devotees, 
when  there  are  glimpses  of  jewels  and 
laces  in  the  carriages,  and  when  even 
those  who  walk  are  leisurely  and  are 
dressed  for  pleasure — then  the  change  is 


96 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 

* 

marked  enough  to  be  dramatic.  And 
tomorrow  on  the  street  may  be  as  dif 
ferent  from  today  as  was  yesterday  — 
when,  you  remember,  it  rained. 

If  one  is  fond  of  music,  the  city  is  of 
course  the  place  to  hear  it.  But  there 
will  be  none  as  moving  as  that  sym 
phony  of  the  street  to  which  the  fluctuat 
ing  crowd  may  be  likened.  There  are 
songs  of  the  seasons,  when  it  sings, — 
now  of  violets,  lilies  and  the  coming 
spring;  now  of  fete  days,  when  the 
national  colors  are  shown  and  there  is  a 
martial  swing  to  the  music;  now  of  the 
Christmas  spirit,  when  the  notes  crowd 
closely  together,  when  the  music  is  swift 
and  strong  and  the  joyous  theme  is 
"Good-will  to  men."  There  is  also  the 
daily  song  —  the  morning  song  of  the 
workers,  inspiring  in  its  swinging  time; 
the  chorus  of  women,  of  shoppers,  with 


@ 

ENTERTAINMENT 

97 

slow  time  but  crowded  notes,  and  with 
now  and  then  a  gay  little  aria;  the  leis 
urely,  voluptuous  march  of  the  after 
noon  ;  and  then  the  song  of  the  weary, 
when  the  bass  comes  in  with  heavy  ac 
companiment  and  a  minor  is  woven  into 
the  theme,  as  the  feet  that  passed  so 
briskly  in  the  morning  shuffle  at  last  on 
dusty  walks.  The  night  song  begins 
with  pleasure,  love  and  wine,  and  dwin 
dles  into  a  lullaby. 

But  it  is  late  when  a  city  goes  to  sleep. 
Far  into  the  night  many  still  hear  it  call 
ing:  "Come,  leave  care,  and  wander; 
forget  yourself  with  me ! " 


£ 

* 

XII 

SLEEP 

*    *    *    the  very  houses  seem 

asleep, 
And  all   that   mighty  heart    is 
lying  still 

William  Wordsworth. 

* 

1*1 

THE  CITY  SLEEPS 

101 

HPHE  city  sleeps  and  dreams,  and 
L       dreams  are  sweet. 
How  dark  and  still  the  street ! 

At  peace,  the  citizens  all  silent  lie ; 

There  is  no  restive  eye; 

The  breath  is  calm,  no  hurried  feet 

go  by— 
Night  falls,  and  rest  is  sweet. 

The  strife  and  struggle  of  the  garish  day, 

The  world  of  work  and  play, 

The  turmoil  and  the  fighting — all  is  past. 
Nor  loves  nor  hates  outlast 
The  wondrous  shadow  of  the  truce 
that's  cast 

When  night  puts  all  away — 

As  if  the  citizens  were  only  boys 
Grown  tired  of  tasks  and  toys, 

And  seeking  loving  mother's  knee, 
that  there, 

With  bedtime  kiss  and  prayer, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  CITY 


They  might  forget  the  daylight's  little 

care 
And  surfeiting  of  joys. 

O  peaceful  stars,  compassioning,  watch 
ful  eyes, 
Make  low  the  lullabies 

That  in  vast  unison  the  planets  sing; 
Let  them  wake  not,  nor  bring 
Too  soon  the  pitiless  mad  dawn  on 

wing 
That,  gleaming,  stirs  the  skies ! 

And  thou,  pale  moon,  pass  on  with 

silent  tread  — 
Thou'st  seen  the  world  to  bed. 

Do  ye,  mild  winds,  snuff  out  her  little 

light 

With  big  clouds,  soft  and  white, 
As  she  upon  the  sleeping  world 

shuts  tight 
The  door,  her  "good  night"  said. 


SB 

THE  CITY  SLEEPS 

103 

And  ye,  black  rivers,  rolling  to  the  sea, 
Roll  on  most  quietly, 

Lest  ye  may  wake  the  city,  lying  still, 

Unconscious  of  the  ill 

Or  good  the  morrow  may  bring  forth 

to  fill 
Its  cup, —  blest  mystery! 

And  last,  O  Father  of  the  world,  look 

down 

With  smile,  and  not  with  frown, 
And  bless  the  city  proud  and  rich 

and  great. 
Forgot  is  its  estate, 
In  childlike  innocence,  immaculate, 
It  sleeps — Thy  peace  its  crown! 


LOAN  DEPT. 


JUL 


30'?4 


